Different
by Aki4
Summary: This is different, but then again, so is he. For all those who wanted Gojyo and Hakkai to kiss, I hope this makes you happy.


Different, aka the Snog Fic,  
  
by Aki  
  
The bed is hard beneath him, a traditional wooden platform covered with a double layer of cotton padded blankets. Western-style mattresses are not unheard of in the cities, but this house apparently prefers the old ways. From downstairs he can hear the plainitive twang of a zither, played by someone with reasonable skill and more enthusiasm than many a rich merchant's precious pearl. He is told that for a thousand yuan a night, he can have the local muse compose poetry with him, and lift cups of red wine to the white moon. Ganbei!  
  
If she's any good, the price is too cheap, but he isn't here for poetry. His hands are curled around the embroidered silk of the coverlet, staining it with damp. The finery of the bedspread surprises him until he realizes that the underside is plain cotton, and can be detached for cleaning. The thought is both repelling and reassuring.  
  
He closes his eyes, but they fly open immediately as the door creaks, letting in a roar of laughter and applause. The floors are shaped and stacked like the sides of a square, the center open for all to look down and be entertained. An elaborate construction emerges in the doorway. Beneath it is a painted face. The paint does not hide the age well, but she perhaps of all the house's residents does not need to worry.  
  
"She'll be right up, dear sir," the wide red mouth simpers, then purses at the sight of him. Thickly-lined eyes narrow in consideration. "First time, is it?"   
  
He hardly knows how to reply. After all, it is his first time--in this lifetime. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. She says, "Ah, you scholars! Needn't worry, I'll have them send up Lishan. Lishan!!" she bellows and the door shuts again.  
  
He opens his eyes and tries to relax. Some part of him is affronted that she has taken him for a callow, bookish youth and has a spiteful thought: What if he took his limiters off? In half a moment he is properly appalled and turns his mind elsewhere in a hurry. It occurs to him to wonder who "she" was. "She" will presumably not be right up, instead, it will be Lishan. Poor Lishan!  
  
Lishan. It's a pretty name, although he's not certain of the second character. Not the kind he expects parents to give a daughter they send into the whorehouse. But families must eat, and parents can die. He knows; it happens to his, after all. He feels grateful that Kanan was too young to become another "working girl" when it happened. Lishan, perhaps, wasn't. So it will be she who comes up the stairs in sandaled feet and silk qi pao, slit too high up the sides to be entirely elegant. She will coax him to drink, to lie down, to take off his shirt--  
  
He moans, and covers his face with his hands. It's been too long, and he doesn't know what he wishes more: that he had never asked Gojyo Where do you go, on those nights? or that he had asked long ago. Yet he could hardly have come here sooner. Certainly not when they were on the road, and never if they had failed. His conscience is tormenting him even now, if he listens for it.   
  
He prefers the sounds of the zither. Staring dully at a painting of mandarin ducks, he reads the poorly-flowing lines inscribed beneath it. He finds it amazing that he once believed love, once lost, could be found in the grave. Four years and many miles have changed his mind. Now he thinks that love, once lost, cannot be found anywhere.   
  
It's all right, he thinks. He isn't here for love. This is different. The thought calms him and he turns back to face the door. He can even smile. It makes him feel less exposed.  
  
A soft knock comes. It isn't the madame, she didn't knock before. "May I come in?" The voice is young, tender as spring. Definitely not the madame.   
  
He clears his throat. "Come in. Lishan."  
  
She does, the thick rug in the center keeping her footsteps noiseless, and suddenly he feels every inch the callow youth. The slits are lower and her hair simpler than he imagined, and it creates an unexpected charm. Lishan looks like a shy, pretty girl--nothing less, or more. She twists her hands once, and the small gesture works wonders. Instantly he wants to reassure her that nothing will happen. He nearly does, as he takes her hand gently. Only the ease with which she sits beside him and his own sense of the ridiculous saves him.  
  
She keeps her eyes down as she removes her slippers, and he can believe that the modesty is genuine. Their knees are nearly touching, but he can only see the downy curve of one cheek. "What shall I call you, sir?" she murmurs. It's a charming voice, and a sudden desire to feel it vibrating from that slender white neck rises up. Before he can think he finds his hands turning her, reaching for the pearl button of the collar. He works to undo it, letting the stiff satin strip loosen around soft skin. It takes some concentration not to tug at the tiny clasp. Strangely, that makes it easier.   
  
When he looks up to meet her eyes he freezes, and begins to stammer an apology. She smiles a smile that should be followed by a blush, and asks him for his name again.   
  
"Call me Gonou."  
  
It's a plea, soft-spoken, and the moment he hears it he knows it was the wrong thing to say. But Lishan is whispering, "Gonou...Gonou, won't you kiss me?" and her soft hands are moving to his face. They smell of jasmine and he leans into them. It's surprisingly simple, feeling the sliding tips of her fingers, finding her lips. He wills her not to rush and she doesn't, lips barely touching, tongue barely tasting, breaths mingling, his coming in nervous puffs. Her mouth tastes of chrysanthemum tea, none of the sourness of wine.  
  
His hands skim lightly along her back: two slow, timid dragonflies. She arches closer to him in response and he lets out a sigh, buries his face in the crook of her neck. Kisses it, harder when he hears her catch her breath. Arousal is waiting, stepping in as he tugs down the zipper at her back and she moans. It's a small, helpless sound, and he startles himself with the need to hear it again. The body memories are coming back and it's no trouble, no trouble at all to lay her down as her legs swing up, oh so obligingly.  
  
Spread out before him, her eyes are slightly wide in that sweet face. It sparks a vicious kind of pride to think that he has managed to surprise, against expectations. He resists leaning over her and reaches back to pull the curtains shut. In the gentle gloom it feels so close that he nearly whispers the name as he bends forward to brush his lips against her ear.   
  
And how would it hurt, if he did? There's a fierce joy in the thought, and he decides that he might keep his eyes closed after all, if the dark proves not enough. His hands are no longer dragonflies, but two fish swimming lazily against a curving sea. She wriggles, thighs bound by the tight skirt, and lust thickens at the back of his throat. Warmth is pooling in his groin, urging him to move faster. He refuses to listen; he knows that starving men have died after a feast.  
  
He places one hand on her knee and moves it slowly upwards. Her eyelids are fluttering beneath fine brows arched like swallows' wings. The mouth is a little thicker, the bones of the face a bit broader, but the brows and the eyes are delicately right. His hands are sliding up her sides when she says, "Wait—let me…" and tugs at his shirt. It pleases him somehow, so he lets her sit up to undo the looped clasps, then reaches down to pull it off.  
  
Her gasp is like a splash of cold water. He stirs like a man out of a dream, looking down in surprise. Her mouth rounding in surprise, or dismay, she lifts up a hand weakly, then lets it fall without touching his skin. "Where on earth did you get so many?" she asks, her voice colored bright with amazement. "I thought you were a scholar!"  
  
The last of the illusion breaks away under the weight of her question, and he pushes her back gently. She gasps again as he reaches for his shirt, protesting, "No, please, I didn't mean to pry, don't leave!" Her fingers cling to his arm, and he pauses to soothe her, promising her that she will be paid. The reassurance soothes her but she continues to look at him anxiously, repeating, "Oh, Da Niang will be so angry…don't tell her I angered you…"  
  
"I won't say a word. And you didn't," he tells her, smiling as he pats her hand. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you." He glances down at the network of scars that cross his skin: thin white ones, long healed, ropy red ones that replaced a bite or gouge. He's seen them before, the contusions he couldn't be bothered to heal, darker patches where he was burned in the final fight, and somewhere on his back, the long slashes he wasn't able to reach directly. "I suppose I forgot," he says, and shakes his head in self-deprecation. "Now, I hope you don't mind, I'd like a few moments?"  
  
She clutches her hands to her chest and slides off the bed, ducking her head in apology. He finishes buttoning up his shirt, smiles at her encouragingly, and calls her back as she moves quickly to the door, "Oops! Mustn't forget…" His hands are very steady as he zips her back up, turning her around to fasten up the button at her throat. "There you go."  
  
"Thank you," she says softly, and to his surprise, her eyes are beginning to hint at tears. It softens him out of cheer for a moment, long enough to feel a sharp pang of regret as she slips out the door.  
  
Sitting back on the bed, he wonders how long this was supposed to take, if he should wait before he comes out and tells Gojyo that it went just fine. The tension hasn't faded completely. He thinks it probably best to leave before it does. Now, he's reluctant to move; in a few more minutes, it will seem impossible.   
  
Another roar comes from downstairs, the rumbling combined appetites of a crowd for excitement. The gaming tables are loud, and he thinks it strange that he wasn't bothered by them earlier. Even stranger, that he should have come to be here at all, a place with painted fans on the walls. Across the floor he hears a crashing sound, and a high-pitched, "Look what you've done!"   
  
It occurs to him that Gojyo likely has his own company and won't be bothered if he leaves a little early. Fortunately, the keys and the money are with him; Gojyo has more sense than to mix business with pleasure. The gamblers of this house, at least, are safe.  
  
He stands and turns vaguely in the center of the room, wondering if he should leave a tip on the black lacquered table. Gojyo never gave him particulars on the protocol. Probably he can clear it with the madame. If not, he can always ask for Lishan again. He regrets not having thought of it earlier.   
  
The door opens nearly under his hand and he jumps back. Red eyes peer at him from under long red hair. "Leaving so soon?" Gojyo's breath smells of cigarettes, but surprisingly, no wine.   
  
"Ah…yes. I was about to go find you," he replies in some confusion. Gojyo doesn't seem to notice his hesitation and pushes through into the room.   
  
"Mm. Not a bad setup. Da Niang certainly keeps her word," his friend comments, swinging around to survey the room. He isn't sure how to respond and settles for a mute nod, although Gojyo has his back to him and surely can't see it. "We could come back, if you like."   
  
The statement is offhand, and he hastens to say, "No, I don't think it will be necessary—I'll be fine for quite some time…really…"  
  
Gojyo doesn't move. The angle of his neck, he notices, suggests that he is staring at the bed. "So what happened?" The man's voice is low. "She said that she upset you, and kept apologizing."   
  
"Is she in trouble?" he asks quickly. "I can go down and explain, if it's necessary."  
  
"It's not," his friend replies. "She came to me. We're…old friends." He rakes a hand through his hair. "I keep telling her her heart's too soft for a hooker, but you know women. They never listen."  
  
"To a piece of hypocrisy like that? I'd hope not."  
  
Gojyo, strangely, doesn't take the bait. "What happened?" he repeats, still facing the bed. "Was she not close enough?"  
  
He closes his eyes. If he doesn't breathe he can still feel the edges of her taste, her scent. "No…she was close." He takes a deep breath. "She saw my scars."  
  
"Gods…" his friend is shaking his head. "I fucked that one up, huh? I should've said something."  
  
He smiles, hoping it will show in his voice. "That's my line, isn't it? Besides, it wasn't…going to work." The answer is too flat. It makes him wince.   
  
"It was a stupid idea. I'm sorry. I wanted it to. For you…you know." The anguish in the man's voice cuts through his emptiness. Even after five years, he's always surprised by Gojyo's capacity for pain. When he decided to go he was calm; it was his friend who brooded like a mother hen.   
  
"Don't turn this into a matter of fault," he says wearily. "I agreed to come along, remember?" He wants to sound more convincing, but he's tired. He could have been in the garden tying sloppy verses by pairs, he thinks. Or guessing lantern riddles. There is a competition going on, and he is good at them. And Gojyo would be drunk by now, leaning against him with boneless grace. "Tonight wasn't the night, I suppose. I appreciate your efforts, though."  
  
The halfbreed snorts like a restive horse. "You would, wouldn't you."   
  
He wishes that that his friend would stop staring at the bed. This was his own idea, but Gojyo is not ordered in his logic or his blame. "I suppose I should have known. Even if she were to—to come back, I wouldn't be the same person. Not anymore." He stares at the ducks, who are still swimming. "If anything, I should have asked for something different."  
  
Finally, his friend moves, turning back to face him. There is a hopeful light in his eye, the spirit of eternal optimism. If you stripped away the red hair and the scars and the cigarettes and the cards, he thinks, if you took all that away then that would be what you saw when you looked at Sha Gojyo. For a moment he is lost in admiration, until Gojyo opens his mouth to say, "I could ask for another one? Someone really different?"  
  
Different would mean a higher slit dress and wiser, harder eyes. Or perhaps a musician, or a long-haired giggler. At the moment, even poetry sounds exhausting. He squeezes his eyes shut. "No, I think I'd rather go home. If you don't mind." Whether his friend minds or not, he is going home, where there are no paintings of mandarin ducks or drunkards bawling two floors down. Where there's no contrast to make him less alive.  
  
Oddly enough, instead of hearing a protest, he smells the bitter tang of Hi-Lites. Gojyo's voice comes from somewhere very, very near. "Did she kiss you, at least?"  
  
"Yes," he replies curtly.   
  
"Good…" Gojyo sounds wistful. He tries to picture the look on the long-boned face that must be inches away. It's surprisingly easy; he's seen it many times. A hungry man watches others eat. "Can't send you home unkissed. Was it...the same?"  
  
He tries to think, wondering why the man doesn't move back already. "Something like it…" Lishan and her butterfly kisses are fading from his mind. The tumult from below is growing louder.  
  
Wah! Hu le, hu le! Someone has won a hand. From the sound of it, a large one. What is Gojyo saying?   
  
"I did…" his reply is distracted, "...but I wish it had been different—do you remember that night we stayed up all night and played?"   
  
"Yes," and this time it's quiet enough downstairs for him to hear. He opens his eyes just in time.   
  
It's not so much chaste as restrained, and he lets himself sag against the table, just a little. Gojyo grabs his arms but lets them go almost immediately, raking one hand into his hair as if he's convinced that it belongs there. It's lean, and firm, and so much larger than Lishan's. The kiss stays strangely gentle, while Gojyo shakes against him like a man with the ague. After a moment he pulls his head away. The man looks back at him, and for a moment he wonders if one of them will smile and let it slide. Would that be forgivable? He isn't sure. The question is moot; the hands fail to let go.   
  
"Say you'll forgive me," Gojyo says urgently. "Say you'll forgive me, I'll never do it again as long as I live, I swear."   
  
He's amazed that there can be more than one such moment in a lifetime, even one like his. "No." He can hardly get the word out. His throat closes like a trap as Gojyo slides to his knees, grabbing his wrists.  
  
"Please. Please, I swear, I'm drunk—"  
  
"You're lying—" He starts to laugh, but can't finish it.  
  
"--crazy then, I swear, I'm not going to let go until you say you won't leave." Gojyo grips him so tightly that it might have hurt, in the days when he was human. He doesn't want to look down. He looks up instead, through the latticework laid on the plaster ceiling. It shouldn't be happening like this, he thinks, not on this thick ugly Persian carpet. Everything in this room is telling him that this is a House. Not home, and not where he should be.   
  
"Gojyo, please. Please get up."  
  
"Say it."   
  
"I'm not going anywhere. Except home." It amazes him that his friend even thinks he has someplace to go, let alone the desire to leave. He hesistates and then adds softly, "Ever." Now he looks down. The face, for all its strong lines, looks more fragile than the finest bone china. This is what hope does.   
  
"You—promise?"  
  
"Yes." If he speaks louder than a whisper, one of them may shatter.  
  
"Hakkai," Gojyo says after a disbelieving pause. "Hakkai," standing up, "Hakkai, Hakkai," pressing their foreheads together, "Hakkai, forgive me, Hakkai…"  
  
"Are you sure?" he asks between kisses. "You're sure that's who I am?"  
  
"Yes," says Gojyo fiercely. "You're Cho Hakkai."  
  
The mahjong tables roar, but he hears the next words anyway.  
  
He sighs. It's a brief sound of mourning, for the Cho Gonou who belonged to Kanan, and for the Cho Hakkai who belonged to no one.   
  
"Let's go," he says. Gojyo releases him reluctantly, eyes taut with longing.   
  
"Home?" the man asks, almost imperceptibly wary.   
  
Yielding to impulse, he lifts one hand to trace the twin curving scars, and watches the eyes rekindle. "Home."  
  
It will be different, he thinks.   
  
But it's better that way. 


End file.
